


Dream Omens

by HeroMaggie



Series: Dreams [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Mention of the Hero of Ferelden, That Damn Varterral, Zevran is a flirt, shades of past Anders/Tabris, shades of past Zevran/Anders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeroMaggie/pseuds/HeroMaggie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance meeting with an "Antivan" Nobleman...</p><p>A "supposed" assassin out on Sundermount...</p><p>A visit from an old friend brings shades of the future for Anders and Fenris. What is Anders to do when the Hero of Ferelden's Crow finds him alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream Omens

**Author's Note:**

> When I first started writing about Eavan, she was decidedly in a romance with Alistair and a familial relationship with Zevran. He started referring to her has "His Dove." The more I write of them, the more Eavan's romantic attachments changed. Now, the term "My Dove" is definitely a romantic one. 
> 
> Shades of past Zevran/Anders and Eavan/Anders.

“I can't believe we're back in this Maker-forsaken cave,” Hawke groused. The group had to agree with her assessment. This was the cave that had housed a varterral – well, until the group had killed it. This trip, fortunately, wasn't to clear out another Dalish monster of legend. The group was here because,supposedly, there was an assassin hiding out somewhere on Sundermount. Supposedly.

Last night Hawke had been waylaid outside of the Blooming Rose by an Antivan “nobleman” by the name of Nuncio and hired to track down the “supposedly” dangerous elf and bring him in – dead or alive. Hawke had told the group about the job and Anders and Isabela had both agreed that this was worth seeing through – though they had refused to offer any further explanations other than “if it’s who we think it is, killing him would be bad for our health.”

So Hawke had rounded up the usual group: Isabela, Fenris, Anders, Varric, and Merrill, for the trek to the old Dalish camp. Camping and cave spelunking was a pretty normal group activity and they all knew the caves around Sundermount better than anybody alive. It was just chance that they had chosen the old varterral cave as the first one to check out.

Anders remembered that fight well. He had been able to pour the varterral spit from his boots, wring it from his robes...it had been a long, hard, disgusting fight. Worse, Fenris had suffered several severe gouges and had refused healing. For a month, the group had languished without the elf's talented sword – all because he had refused to allow Anders to use magic to heal him.

The ear twitches and dull flush of red covering high cheekbones clued Anders in that his lover was remembering that fight as well.

“You will let me heal you if you get stabbed, right?” Anders glanced at Fenris and gave him a pleading look.

“Yes...I was wrong then. I will not make the same mistake twice,” Fenris glanced away, embarrassed.

“I mean, I am living with you now so it would make the convalescing easier but...” Anders blathered, stopping when Fenris sighed and drew him into a kiss. The group kept searching the caves, all of them used to Fenris' unique way of getting Anders to shut up.

The mage had just let out a happy hum when there was a dull roar, a crash, and a shriek from Hawke. Looking over Fenris' shoulder, Anders watched a varterral pull itself into view.

“Holy shit,” exhaled Varric.

“What...the...fuck...” Hawke yelled, dodging a gob of spit. “Andraste's fucking knickers...we killed this. I remember killing this. It was in little flaming pieces!”

Fenris gave Anders a grin as he pulled his sword free, “I guess we just need to kill it again.”

“Second time's the charm?” Anders asked, brandishing his staff and letting lightning start to wreath his hands.

“I think it's third time, but let's make this one count,” Varric called.

***

Hawke’s group was intimately familiar with how little coordination was involved in a varterral fight. Between the corrosive spit, the pummeling leg attacks, the bullrushing, and the snapping jaws, the fight was a constant battle to just remain out of spit puddles and away from flailing legs. For the mages and Varric, that meant spells being disrupted and bolts flying cockeyed as the beast rolled and lunged around the cave. For Fenris and Isabela, it meant standing directly under the thing and hoping it didn’t sit on them.

The fight was brutally fast, the group dancing around the large beast. Despite the constant attacks, the vartarrel seemed to be holding its own – at least until Merrill managed to get off a powerful blood-magic backed spell. Vines thicker than Varric’s ankles shot out of the ground to wrap around the bucking creature. Fenris and Isabela took the opportunity to slice at its legs, slowly hacking at the monster till, with a screech, it toppled over. The group scattered, and Hawke dropped a fireball on the beast.

There was a scream and more thrashing. Anders stopped healing and sent lightning into the flailing, dying monster. Hawke threw another fireball and Merrill tightened her grip on the slowly burning vines. Fenris waited for the fireballs to stop hitting, activated his brands, darted forward, and hacked through the neck.

The group stood around the smoldering corpse and exhaled, all of them covered in various bits of varterral gore and the ever-present spit. A moment of watching the monster burn and Anders let out a loud “Bah! My robes!”

Indeed, his new robes – just bought from Fran – had two holes in them from the spit. The dark grey wool looked singed near the hem. Anders held the fabric up to his face and sighed. “Fran is going to kill me.”

“What are you wearing under that thing?” Isabela asked, goggling at Anders’ legs. The mage's legs were encased in tight knit leggings of some sort. The leggings were black and skin-tight and tucked into his favorite knee-high leather boots.

“Fran had these knit leggings – like stockings but woolen. They keep my legs warm…Izzy…” Anders suddenly dropped his robe and backed away from the rogue. “Oh heavens stop pointing...”

Fenris had just pushed in front of Anders when there was a husky laugh and the sound of clapping from the back of the chamber. The group, as one, turned to see a golden-haired elf saunter across the cave. He paused to take in the mangled remains of the varterral, letting out another low laugh, before moving to stop in front of Hawke.

The surprised silence split with an excited scream as Isabela launched herself at the newcomer, the name “Zevran!” ringing through the air.

“Lovely, lovely Isabela,” Zevran barely staggered as he caught her, “What a glorious surprise. You are, as always, breathtaking.”

“I figured it was you hiding out here. Didn’t I tell you, Anders?” Isabela pressed kisses to both of Zevran’s cheeks before disengaging herself. “Zev, meet Anya Hawke. Anya, this is Zevran Arainai. A dear friend…and troublemaker.”

“Mm, if he’s an old friend of yours then I should imagine he’s more trouble than anything,” Hawke teased, moving up to stand next to her lover. “Friend friend or more than friend?” Her brow arched at her lover.

“Oh sweet thing, Zevran and I go way back. But don’t worry, nobody eclipses you,” The words were husky and filled with warmth, Isabela draping herself against Hawke’s side.

“So you have been caught, my dear Bela. But ah, the Champion of Kirkwall, your beauty and bravery is sung throughout all of Thedas. I can see why our charming pirate has settled on you,” Zevran gave a deep bow, taking Hawke’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “I had not anticipated on you visiting, though perhaps I am not surprised.”

“I met this Antivan nobleman…” Hawke started, stopping when Zevran started laughing. “What?”

“Ah Nuncio…is that the tale he is weaving now? Certainly, it is only here in Kirkwall that it would be believed. Or perhaps Ferelden…hard to say. But I digress. Was it a fop of a man wearing clashing colors attempt to hire you to kill me?” Zevran grinned impishly. “I imagine he hoped one such as you would be able to take me down. Sadly, so far only one beautiful and brave woman has ever bested me.”

“And is she still besting you?” Anders moved up behind Hawke and gave a sheepish grin, “Hi Zevran.”

“Anders,” The humor bled from Zevran’s face as golden eyes took in the mage, “You are dead, no?”

“No,” the word was so quiet it was nearly a whisper, “Not dead.”

“My Dove,” Zevran stepped back, his hand patting at a dagger at his hip, “My Dove believed you dead. She mourned.”

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” Anders stepped from behind Hawke and held his arms out. “I’m not dead, as you can see.”

“And presenting me with such a fine target. I should maim you a little, for the pain you caused her. But the handsome elf with such intriguing tattoos is growling. Your lover, then? He would be most put out if I touched you, yes?” Zevran moved forward. “Does he not know, then? How much we all…how I thought…how Dove felt…”

“I’m sorry,” Anders couldn’t seem to find any other words. “Zevran…I’m sorry.”

Zevran didn’t stop till his arms were wrapped around Anders, “Say no more. I must tell her, yes? You, I am sure, are fearful of that. But she should know. And perhaps…she should come and see you with her eyes. You are hers, and she would need that. My Dove, she does nothing halfway.” He squeezed Anders tightly and then stepped back, amusement filtering into his gaze as he turned to look back at Hawke.

“And now, my dear Champion of Kirkwall, if I could but ask a tiny favor of you. I understand that one such as yourself has many favors requested of her person, but I think you may enjoy this just a little bit…”

***

“You know, Zevran, you were right. I did enjoy that,” Hawke watched Isabela pick a chest open. “Nuncio did make sobbing noises when he saw you.”

“I told you, my dear Champion, that he was a coward. Truly, a terrible showing for a Crow,” Zevran shook his head and laughed, “I am just sorry that the fight was so brief.”

“But there are so many chests,” Isabela crooned, finally getting the lock open. “Blast it…torn trousers! Why do we keep finding these?”

“I think it’s just Kirkwall,” Merrill chirped, waving a pair of torn trousers that had been shoved in a barrel at Isabela. “I think the city turns treasure into trousers.”

The group stopped to eye Isabela’s bare legs.

“What?” She looked down. “Something on my boots?”

“There’s something deeply ironic about a pantless pirate only finding torn trousers when looting,” Anders remarked, laughing when Isabela threw her pair at him.

“I couldn’t write anything that amazing,” Varric said as he pulled out a pouch of coins. “I usually find money, though. What does that say about me?”

“That even the loot gods know better than to mess with Bianca,” Hawke pointed out. “Will you be ok, Zevran?”

“Worried?” Zevran leaned on Hawke’s shoulder and gave her a look best described as smoldering. “If you are concerned…”

“Zevran…Anya isn’t into that…unless of course she is and hasn’t told me…” Isabela perked up. “Have I told you about Zevran’s amazing fingers?”

Zevran laughed as red blossomed in Hawke’s cheeks. “Sadly, my lovely Isabela, I am spoken for as well. But old habits die hard, no? Do not concern yourself, Champion. I am returning to My Dove. No Crow dares to attack with her around.”

“And what will you tell her?” Anders glanced at the elf and worried with his staff. “About me...what will you tell her about me?”

“Ah. The truth, dear one. I will tell her the truth. And then I am sure I shall be back here as she will wish to rush to see you.” The teasing fell from Zevran’s face and the assassin gave Anders a somber look. “She cried, Anders. And you know how hard it is for her to do that. Do not ask me to lie to her.”

“I won’t,” Anders sagged a bit, his entire body drooping. Shooting Zevran a glare, Fenris wrapped his arms around his mage and huffed in annoyance – both at the conversation and the morose expression on Anders' face.

“Ah, do not worry. Dove will be beyond ecstatic once she calms down. Perhaps a trip to the Vigil's basement, yes? Kill some pesky darkspawn, maybe tangle with an ogre? It shall make her feel better, do not worry,” Zevran gave a chuckle. “Champion, it was a joy to see you and fight beside you. I have a feeling our paths will cross in the future.” He didn’t wait for a response, simply gave a wave and started down the path that would take him to Kirkwall.

“What a strange man,” Hawke murmured.

“I have a feeling we’re going to be besieged with wardens,” Anders whimpered.

“They cannot have you back,” Fenris groused, his arms tightening around his mage, possessiveness in every word and gesture.

The group stared at Fenris who simply growled.

“Does he have birds?” Merrill chirped into the tense, growl-filled atmosphere. “He said he had a dove? But is that a person? He said crow and meant a person so…”

Anders closed his eyes and gave a chuckle, “You could say that the crow was bested by a dove, yes Merrill. Yes you could.”

Isabela snickered and went back to picking another chest, the rest of the group trying to pick apart that statement.

There was the sound of a lock being sprung, rusty hinges squealing, and then a loud, exasperated sigh.

“Shit. More torn trousers…”

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be it's own short story and the prequel to the third full-length installment, Freedom's Dream - which is currently being worked on. Stay tuned for more Anders in a corset, Fenris coming to terms with relationships, The Hero of Ferelden...and the end of the Kirkwall Crew's story...
> 
> For DA2 that is :D
> 
> I can be found on Tumblr under Warriormaggie


End file.
